


By the Hand of a Foreign Man

by funeral_in_carpathia



Series: Company Ink [3]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Celebratory Sex, M/M, Secret Relationship, Trust Issues, Violence, hair fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 20:19:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7452652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funeral_in_carpathia/pseuds/funeral_in_carpathia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I won’t keep you up long, Tseng. Just keep me company for a while.” </p><p>Rufus is restless the night before his inauguration as President, and the last thing the President’s watchdog would be found is selfish in his needs.</p><p>Third part of the series Company Ink, sequel to Two Rooms With a View.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By the Hand of a Foreign Man

The prelude for Rufus’ coronation had not played out quite as Tseng had ever imagined. He had envisioned it as an organic transition of power once the President was senile or dead enough, and certainly not as this chain of unfortunate events triggered by AVALANCHE infiltrating the headquarters and finding the late President skewered in his armchair, a few long strands of silver hair stuck in the blood-soaked cloth of his red jacket.

Yet here Tseng was, the constant shadow by Rufus’ side, watching him from a respectful yet secure distance as he stood tall in the crowd, countless lackeys orbiting his radiant presence. Wearing an obviously fake smile and a far less fake black tie – Tseng had never doubted that the man would look nothing short of spectacular in the reverse, black dominating white – Rufus shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, neatly refused any dances or advances from blushing debutantes and old associates of his late father.

That a gala of such calibre had even been arranged was a small miracle in itself; after all, the man was accused of providing terrorist funding and arranging the murder of his father, late President Shinra, which had him detained and placed in house arrest in the heart of Junon, while Sephiroth roamed free. The only time he had been allowed outside during the crime investigation was for his father’s funeral, to which he had arrived in all black, expressionlessly watching his old man be enshrined in the family crypt and clearly profiting from an excuse not to stay and pretend to weep before the marble façade and the cigarette butts he had graciously dumped in the sea of flowers at the crypt’s feet. 

Rufus was, in the end and unsurprisingly, found not guilty. Of course Tseng would not expect any other outcome, not even if Rufus had been guilty of such a deed, which he had a hard time believing. Even he, who despised his old man from the bottom of what some might call his heart, would not stoop so low as to have his father killed; shrugging off somebody else’s plan to do so was a different matter altogether, and Tseng had never dared to raise the subject in Rufus’ presence. He had all the means to find out the truth, but having his hands full of AVALANCHE, Sephiroth and the new President’s antics, he had left that for later.

Indeed, Rufus seemed to seize every opportunity to exert the power bestowed upon him. The looks he shot at Tseng from across the room verged on risky, but deep within, they appealed to Tseng’s vanity. Whenever someone proposed a toast to the new President, it was Tseng whose eyes met the President’s as he raised a glass for good fortune, and the smile that flashed on Rufus’ lips made Tseng’s chest ache. He felt ill at ease in his suit and arms and wanted out desperately, but he would lead by example and stay as long as Rufus did, for so would the rest of his Turks. Even Reno seemed to begrudgingly stick to the orders to stay sober throughout the party, and for the first time in his life, Tseng truly sympathized with him, for he, too, would very much have preferred to dull himself with an obscene number of complimentary drinks.

Now Rufus was making a move, a sharp turn on his heels towards the facilities, and a tactical flip of his hair paired with that distinct look in his eyes prompted Tseng to follow suit. No one paid him any attention as he moved through the throng of Midgar’s _crème de la crème_ in Rufus’ wake, and the public was surprisingly tactful in not harassing the President in such a situation. The corridors in which Rufus led Tseng were empty of all people – they were for personnel only, but Rufus did not seem to care.

“I’m done, Tseng. Let’s get out of here,” he whispered, his lips lingering on Tseng’s earlobe longer than would ever be appropriate, his hand resting on Tseng’s arm.  A faint, pleasant whiff of an after-dinner cigar made Tseng’s fingers itch for a smoke, or perhaps something else, maybe both; he had to admit that the empty darkness around him was just as tempting as it could be for anyone with a mind to strike down the President. He nodded, carefully watching his surroundings and Rufus’ back as he walked him to the elevators. Surely enough, he would get that look from Rufus again – that look that took him back to the night of the power cut – and Rufus would turn his head and look away with a sour sneer on his lips. Obviously the trauma was not big enough for him to quit riding elevators altogether – well, elevators or something else that unfortunately remained a rare occurrence.

The drive home was short, but to shed anyone possibly following his car, Tseng took quite a few detours, including the local drive-in restaurant as Rufus had not touched a bit of food during the night, either due to fear of poisoning or poor choice of catering. Both were valid reasons for Tseng, who felt a particular kind of satisfaction watching Rufus tuck in on his double hot dog and effortlessly finish it between two sets of traffic lights not quite far apart.

Once they had slipped into Rufus’ temporary quarters in the better parts of Junon, unseen, Tseng relieved Rufus of his coat and himself of the assortment of arms he had been carrying all night. Here, in one of the late President’s residences, security was supposed to be solid enough to let Tseng breathe in peace and Rufus have his beauty sleep; there were cameras peppered and guards assigned all around the premises. Old man Shinra had indeed feared for his life, his body and his empire that he thought immortal – Rufus feared much less, resulting in Tseng assuming that responsibility.

“Would you like a drink, Tseng? If anything, my father knew his liquors.” Rufus sighed, trusting the question to be understood as rhetorical, for he had already shuffled his way to the liquor cabinet and perused the selection of whiskeys and gins thoroughly while Tseng had been arranging his weapons.   

“If you insist, Sir, but just one then.” He had sworn to stay sober until his watch was over, but accepting Rufus’ offer – which was not truly an offer, even less a request – seemed less trouble than watching an offended Rufus drink for the two of them.  

“Sorry for the mess. This place needs some refurbishing.” The contempt was evident in Rufus’ words and the sharp look he sent to the general direction of the late President’s living room. The place was pretentiously dated with its red velvets and worn leathers, and the only personal touch Rufus had managed to add during his confinement was a pile of files on top of his laptop, and a massive bouquet of white lilies. Rufus had an eye for detail, and Tseng knew his surroundings would be immaculate even without the massive fortune weighing down in his pockets. He could also tell that the only element Rufus tolerated in the entire room was the antique grand piano standing in the middle of the living room; the music sheets were peppered with notes scribbled with Rufus’ handwriting, and there were fingerprints everywhere on the dusty keys.

Rufus had taken a stand by the window and loosened his bow tie slightly. The slight blush on his chiselled cheekbones prompted Tseng to take both Rufus’ glass and his own and disappear to the kitchen, only to return with a top-up of ice.

“You have a long day ahead, Sir. Perhaps you should get some rest.” Tomorrow marked Rufus’ future, in ways more than one, and Tseng would not have him appear in front of the public looking and feeling like the jaded puppeteer that he was. Or perhaps that was one of Rufus’ tricks, to inspire that kind of fear in the public, to fight the image of his late father; he worked harder than many of the executives together, and he had been desperate to bare his claws.  

“It’s not even midnight, Tseng. You, of all people, should know that this is nowhere near my bedtime.” His laughter, curt but not displeased, mingled pleasantly with the chinking of the ice as he twirled the glass in his palm. He was right: from what Tseng had witnessed when sharing Rufus’ bed or receiving his emails throughout unreasonable hours, Rufus had frequent bouts of insomnia that made him even more disagreeable than usual, and it saw no end until both his mind and body reached either utter exhaustion or a proper closure of kinds.

“Then at least slip into something more comfortable than that.” Tseng’s words were more deliberate than courteous; for he, for one, would certainly like to slip into something more comfortable, yet this was Rufus’ day – one of them – and the last thing the President’s watchdog would be found was selfish in his needs. He would see to it that Rufus could safely retire for the night, and once he had made sure that the President was dead to the world and that his sleeping chambers were safe, he would return in the morning to escort the newly appointed President to the parade on the streets of Junon where thousands of soldiers would march to salute their supreme leader on earth.

There was no name for what was and what was not going on between him and President Shinra; those distinguishing moments had been scarce, ephemeral, yet from half of a wink or a broken syllable, one knew what the other was after, how to seize the moment and give the other a glimpse of what never should have been and what never should be.

First he thought very little of Rufus calling him in the middle of the day, inquiring whether he was driving and, whether or not he was, insisting that he wear a headset. Then, only from a missed turn or a coffee gone cold, he realized the true intent behind Rufus’ carefully selected words and probing questions that might seem innocent to the untrained ear, but that undeniably aimed at what President Shinra or his right-hand man could never be caught engaging in. This realization drove him to twistedly relish in Rufus’ agony while he was only beginning to enjoy himself behind the wheel, at his home office, the gym, wherever he happened to be before player two finally seized his chance to join the game.

He thought it was nothing serious, yet Rufus booking a weekend getaway in the middle of a critical operation and dragging him with him had thrown him off guard. He did not quite grasp whether it was meant as an attempt at romance, yet those three days for him had been nothing like light-hearted courtship. Raising the veil of curiosity and glimpsing at the insecurity in such advances had him return to the childhood he never had, a boy facing a mountain of presents, unwrapping one at a time in sheer delight and playing to his heart’s content. The memory of Rufus tied up by his hand, yet no less majestic than when in full control, had burned into his mind, just like those damned shoes he had worn throughout the night that still hurt his every step.

No, it was certainly nothing serious; rather, those fleeting moments more than that, dire and grave, yet preciously light at once, and Tseng thought the old President’s death and the – heh – avalanche that it sparked would mark the end of it. Had Rufus even anticipated this turn of events that kept him and Tseng apart more than ever was a question Tseng often pondered, but never quite dared to ask the man directly.

“A tempting thought, but not yet. That would be a waste of black tie. This attire has more parts than the new reactor prototype, and putting it on took longer than even I could afford.” Rufus’ voice shook Tseng out of his thoughts and into watching those slim fingers caressing the surface of what seemed like an antique gramophone, sending speckles of dust in the air. Rufus reached the needle and moved it, seemingly pleased as the gramophone produced a crackling sound followed by music even older than his father.

“Dance with me, Tseng.” He knew Rufus to be sober, or at least close to after but a few perfunctory toasts. The man held out his right hand in earnest, and driven by a kind of madness, Tseng took it, surrendering to Rufus’ lead as the President took his first steps. From the corners of his memory, he summoned a faint recollection of his arms being arranged as a cue lead the dance, and Rufus’ to be led, yet Rufus took charge, spinning Tseng into motion towards the banal backdrop of the grand piano.

Dancing had never been part of the Turks’ training, but for Rufus, this was obviously not his first time on the floor. He moved lightly, maintaining an even but unsafe distance, swaying softly to the music. Tseng felt clumsy, unlike any other time he made use of his trained body, but catching Rufus looking at him smiling, his eyes sharp and challenging, kept his steps in check and his mind on how warm the President’s body felt against his.

“Was the brass band not to your liking, Sir?” Rufus Shinra was President now, and had he so wanted, he could have caused a public stir by leading his bodyguard to the dancefloor; yet Tseng, remotely bitterly, knew he had more than enough reason not to. Rufus might hold the world around him down with fear and loathing, but had he shown distinct fondness for his right hand, Tseng of the Turks in public, he would be vulnerable. They would go after Tseng first, and despite his Turks, Rufus Shinra would be alone in the world and one more mishap would cost him his empire

“I won’t keep you up long, Tseng. Just keep me company for a while.” Rufus spoke as softly as he moved, twirling a vagrant strand of Tseng’s hair around his finger. He looked so young, pristine in his black and white, and Tseng had him close enough to see his little imperfections; the slight crook of his nose, the palest of freckles that one could only ever distinguish after the first days of spring, the few odd pockmarks on his forehead or temples that his hair gracefully fell on. He could smell his cologne, the impeccable harmony of spice and leather, but more than that, the underlying notes privy to only him; his unrest, his warmth from not merely sweating in black tie for hours, the acridness of those substances men relied on in times of need.

Rufus Shinra was an imperfect, infuriating little shit, but to Tseng, he was perfect to the last stroke.

“I’m afraid I’m a poor conversationalist, Sir.” Tseng chanced a smile, slowly letting his hand slide down from Rufus’ waist to his hip and to his backside. His conversations with Rufus were little more than work-related, usually sharp observations and plain facts, plans and their execution, and that was not to say neither of them loved every second of it. He greatly enjoyed Rufus’ wit, his cutthroat intelligence and his well-rounded arguments – but the very last thing he wanted to do with this man in private was to hold a conversation that did not involve elaborate scenarios of a very carnal nature. Everything else Rufus had to offer was handed out to him on a silver platter every morning, day and at times night, but this side of him that he presumed few had ever seen was the final flame to his sorry little moth.

Rufus countered, his hand slipping out of place from Tseng’s shoulder to the junction of his neck, tracing his jawline with his thumb.  “I know, Tseng. That’s why I asked,” he conceded, and from his eyes, Tseng knew that this was as far as Rufus would step to express himself. Any other time Tseng would challenge him, but on the eve of his reign, Rufus deserved nothing less than to be gently worn out and lulled to sleep to look his absolutely best in the next day’s parade. However, Rufus had the benefit of youth, whereas the ten-odd years in between him and Tseng would not work in Tseng’s favour in matters of stamina. Then again, there could be worse tactics than to tie this man up in ways Tseng had only theorized before, and watch him squirm, watch him suffer and enjoy how Tseng readied himself to strike again. Or perhaps it would be better to have Rufus do the torturing – yes, even with the risk that Rufus’ idea of fun might actually be to leave him hanging in a very compromising situation.

He leaned in close enough to feel the heat of Rufus’ breath, letting the man do the rest and kiss him forcefully, slowly, his tongue dancing in tune with the soft jazz. The thirst he had fought throughout the night took over him, and with it came the bittersweet understanding that things would not get any better than this. Things would certainly be different, and certainly never normal, and every kiss Rufus parted with felt like the last one. Tseng would remember those lips every time they brushed the rim of a glass, the spikes of a fork, a cigarette; every word they spoke, every displeasure that had them curl or tighten would make his own mouth ache.

His contractual obligations aside, he would never be more to Rufus than an easy escape, a comfort through sleepless nights, and an object of long repressed lust. Rufus would never fill the void in Tseng’s life; no, Rufus Shinra _was_ the void in his life, a grief that should have been but what was slowly giving way to violent rebellion and selfish want.

“You said you would not keep me up long, Sir, but you should know that _I_ promised no such thing,” he whispered sharply, pinning Rufus’ body against the shiny, lacquered surface of the grand piano behind him, making it perfectly clear what he thought of the wanton display of his dancing, his drinking, him being the perfect little cocktease that he certainly was not to anyone else than Tseng of the Turks.

“Define _up_ for a man who is this close to owning whole fucking world, or _long_ for the man who has spent all these years waiting for tomorrow, Tseng.” Rufus smirked victoriously, pulling him closer by the knot of his tie, undeniably aroused.  There was no room in Rufus’ mind for the unimaginable; had he not deliberated his every action that might lead to such a compromising situation he must have, in the very least, imagined the possibility. Even if Rufus’ mind was not equipped for any torrid, casual encounter to lighten up his and Tseng’s day, Tseng had to admit he was pleasantly up for it yet another time.  

“Up like this, and long enough to make your sitting through the whole parade and inauguration ceremony very uncomfortable, Sir.” He grabbed Rufus’ hand and planted it firmly between his thighs, shivering in the heat of Rufus’ fingers bypassing his zipper and dipping right under his garments.

“I love how you talk dirty, Tseng, but please don’t quit your day job for that. I was not planning to sit, so make the proper adjustments.” His words, thick and moist as his lips on Tseng’s, struck like lightning into Tseng’s flesh. His chest sank and rose in sudden agitation, and the thin, luxurious fabric of his shirt betrayed the hardness of his nipples. It would take time to learn what triggered the most wonderful responses out of Rufus, but for now, Tseng was confident in how phenomenally easily he would be able to please the President in his current state.

Rufus’ eyes widened at the sight of Tseng kneeling at his feet and catching his zipper between his teeth, but he made no move or word of protest as the man caressed the coarse fabric up his thighs before unwrapping his prize. Tseng wasted no time in his usual repertoire, but got straight to the point, running his moist lips on bare skin in devout appreciation. He had Rufus pinned against the grand piano by the hips, and he had to use considerable force to keep him still as he enjoyed himself, memorizing the feel and taste in his starved mouth. If this was anywhere close to how Rufus could make him feel and how he seemed to enjoy every sip of doing the same, he would be content – but Rufus would not be satisfied with only _content_ , so why would Tseng?

Emboldened, Tseng reached for his glass on the piano and took a handsome gulp of his drink; then he took it all in, and oh, how Rufus kept pulling at the lengths of his hair with one hand, burying any trace of dishonourable emotion in the other as Tseng shamelessly toyed with a chip of ice between his tongue and Rufus’ cock. Each drop that he swallowed of his drink was a struggle, but a very inebriating one, making his heart race faster and the fire in his loins spread out of control with every little gasp from Rufus’ lips.

For every fingernail digging into his scalp, Tseng would take him in a breath deeper, show him a touch of teeth and leave purple fingerprints on the lean flesh of Rufus’ hips until he had the President’s full cooperation and coordination. His throat burned and he was close to gagging, but the feel and taste of how close he was bringing Rufus was too maddening to trade in for instant gratification. He would not count on him to voice any kind of plea or warning; Rufus had long since made it clear _he_ would count on Tseng to respect his limits, and Tseng had a mind to test those limits in another manner.

He freed his mouth, only momentarily, to stand up and grab Rufus by the chin. Rufus accepted the kiss he was forced upon, quivering yet unflinching, unashamed to taste himself in Tseng’s mouth as he ventured closer, his body posing the question that Tseng was dying to answer _and_ the answer that Tseng was dying to hear.

Tseng grabbed him by the shoulders and flipped him around, pinning him against the grand piano. He felt Rufus’ heartbeat on his own skin despite the thick layers in between, his long ignored erection pressing urgently against the supple flesh of Rufus’ buttocks. He slid one hand between Rufus and the piano, then removed his belt with admirable precision and lowered his trousers just enough to see where he was headed. The President shivered against him, waiting without a word of command, his arms braced against the grand piano for support as Tseng unzipped himself and allowed himself a few strokes with the fingers first forced and slicked in Rufus’ mouth. For Rufus, nothing but the thrill of the wait; should Tseng fail to deliver otherwise, he would make sure Rufus would not sit _or_ stand without anything to remember him by.

“You’ll see that I’m not a man of idle threats, Mister President,” he whispered, his lips and tongue a devious distraction on Rufus’ ear as he rammed in without warning. Rufus gasped, even flinched, and Tseng could tell how much it must be hurting the President – and how _fucking_ amazing it felt.

He watched the movement of the fabric as Rufus arched his back more with every thrust, spread his arms wider as not to collapse on the old instrument, his cufflinks banging on the piano in the frantic rhythm of their union and his fingers itching to touch what was off limits for him. Tseng buried his lips in the back of his neck, tasting salt with a hint of baby powder and cologne, suckling on the overgrown strands of hair that curled at the nape of his neck just slightly above his collar.  

Yes, what a waste of black tie it would have been not to take the young President of Shinra right here and now, fully clothed, black on black under black, to not study his reflection on the lacquered surface and notice how violently he was biting his lip to keep himself from moaning like an alley cat in a tiger’s skin with each thrust that crushed his crotch sharply against the piano.

“If I had known I’d be fucked like this when I’m President, I’d have killed my father with my bare hands.”

It was the foulest, most offensive thing he had ever heard from Rufus’ mouth, and it made him even more certain that Rufus had orchestrated the murder of his own father, and that very thing sent him over the edge and beyond. He pounded faster, harder, bent down closer to grab Rufus by the hair and to push his head down with a bang.

The music had long since stopped, leaving behind but the maddening rustle of the needle and choir of the violent pounding of blood inside his veins. The piano sheets had scattered all over the floor, and this, Rufus struggling for breath and writhing in the aftershock of his peak, was the kind of music Tseng finally gave himself the permission to sing to.  

He pulled out swiftly, like pulling a band aid, a slight guilt weighing down on him as this had been far from proper care despite Rufus’ consent among other signs of rapture. He wrapped his arms around Rufus’ pounding chest, his raggedy breath tickling Rufus’ ear in a hoarse inquiry on whether the President was all right.

“I could use a shower. And so could you, Tseng.” Rufus smirked over his shoulder, clearly judging the weary state of Tseng’s hair between his thumb and index finger. Just the right amount of dishevelled, the President could walk – perhaps with some difficulty - back into the party with ease, unlike Tseng, who felt as if he could stealthily assassinate a man with the stench of his sweat-drenched suit alone. He nodded, dazed, not registering Rufus’ warm hand in his until the President had escaped his embrace and walked him to the bathroom and propped him against the door, leisurely undressing him in the merciless light. Tseng’s consciousness of his fresh bruises, his neglected shaving in various places and the sad state of what Rufus had felt inside him so hard just now melted away as Rufus removed the last of his garments and pushed him gently under the shower and turned the tap.

He preferred cold water to warm, as it cleared his mind and woke him up, second to coffee only. Yet now he wanted nothing more than the hot water pelting over him and shrouding the view of Rufus slowly undressing in front of the mirror. Tseng had never seen an outfit as complex and with as many parts, with details from the past such as the knee-high socks that would look ridiculous on anyone else and plain sensual against Rufus’ shapely calves. His knees buckled slightly as he removed his trousers, and Tseng made absolutely no attempt to conceal a proud smile. He would be the one to watch the mighty Rufus Shinra tremble from his touch, or fall to his knees, and he would be the only one to rejoice when the man stood up again, higher than ever.

It was but a glimpse of Rufus’ pale, perfect body he could catch before he had that very body against his, warm and slick, becoming one with him in the steaming hot water. He had Rufus heaving deep against his back, his hands rubbing silky, fragrant froth all over his body, in places Tseng thought sacred if only in the bathroom, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He would gladly turn around and return the favour, but the sound and movement behind him, of Rufus touching himself to wash off the heat Tseng had brought to his skin, had him reconsider.

“Will you let me wash your hair, Tseng?” This, of all the things Rufus had asked of him, was by far the most intimate, the one thing to inspire some fear of intimacy in Tseng. He had never let anyone else touch his hair – not that many would have qualified – and letting Rufus do this would strip him of something he could not quite place. His hair, his pride and shame as it had grown and gone and grown again in his near history – yet how Rufus lovingly curled the lengths around his fingers and untangled them in gentle appraisal made him nod in approval and gladly surrender in the President’s knowing hands.

“I can’t remember your brand, but at least this won’t turn your hair green like mine would.” Rufus’ murmur was soft through the layers of warm lather that ran down Tseng’s temples and into his ears, his touch the perfect marriage of pressure and movement on his scalp again, his body so hot and slick against Tseng’s that there was only so much Tseng could take before claiming Rufus’ mouth in a kiss over his shoulder. He felt soap in his eye, but Rufus’ gentle hands came for his help without asking, swiping away the suds and the stray locks of hair. Somehow he also tasted soap in his mouth, or Rufus’; it did not matter under the increasing pressure of the water cascading over the two, washing the day off their skins, their hair, their minds.

Time seemed to have stopped for a while, until Rufus turned the tap and stepped out of the shower, leaving Tseng cold turkey. He veiled himself in a luxurious bathrobe, and Tseng would gladly have indulged in the same comforting softness of the other bathrobe neatly folded on the marble counter, but Rufus chose otherwise. He tossed Tseng a regular, albeit equally luxurious towel, and the intense appreciation in his eyes, nailed at Tseng’s hands tying the towel in a knot below his hips, made any disappointment disappear.

Every time Rufus looked at him, he tried to recall whether he had seen that particular look before, whether the man was appraising him as a business proposal or showing him the same contempt he might show for an order mixed up at a restaurant. The closest he could recall was years back; the same fascination towards a living, breathing creature as when President Shinra had brought in a puppy for Rufus’ tenth birthday. Tseng did not know whether Rufus had loved Dark Nation as a human being should love his animal companion, but he remembered the gleam in his eyes, his small body all wrapped against the dog when asleep, and years later, not long ago, the tears Rufus had thought no one would see when they carried the dog’s remains out to be cremated.

“Come here, Tseng. Let me brush you.” If not for his eyes, Rufus’ tone of voice certainly struck a chord in Tseng, and like a dog, he obeyed. Ensnared between Rufus and the bathroom counter, he stood still, his cock not quite recovered yet aching with promise as Rufus neglected it completely in favour of his other lengths. Each stroke of the brush broke him down in shivers, trapped between his own hardness and Rufus, who kept pressing hard against his buttocks as he indulged his perfectionist nature by splitting Tseng’s hair in small sections, working through one at a time until he was pleased with the outcome – and until Tseng’s eyes caught his in the mirror, spellbound in their deep and piercing blue.

“I don’t think I have a hair dryer in here, Tseng. Will that be a problem?”

“No, Sir, as long as I don’t sleep with wet hair.”

“I’ll take that as a challenge, Tseng.” Rufus planted a kiss at the nape of his neck, his hands running down his bare arms and leaving traces of hair oil behind. Then he was gone before Tseng could react, already immersed in his own grooming routines, and Tseng, enraptured, paid close attention to all of it: the blade meant to catch the five-o’clock shadow that perhaps only Rufus saw, the ring finger rubbing in a soothing motion over the dark circles under his eyes, the fine art of sculpting his hair to careless, flawless perfection.

His eyes might not tire of such a sight, but another part of him had had enough and yearned to move on to the bedroom. Rufus, too, was acutely aware of Tseng’s low-hanging towel barely kept up by something else than the lousy knot alone, and gracefully let himself be followed into the bedroom.

This was no canine submission; this was him, not Tseng of Wutai or Tseng of the Turks, but a man taking what he wanted, delivering what he knew was expected from him and even more, unsolicited. He tossed Rufus onto the bed, dropped his towel and climbed after him to finish what he had started. He had Rufus lying before him on his back, a white lion exposing its belly in heat - one wrong scratch and Tseng’s neck would feel both claws and teeth in a heartbeat, and he would not have it any other way.  

He had given him a fair warning before, which was much more than Rufus merited. He pried Rufus’ legs apart and adjusted himself in between them, to refresh the President’s memory in a rather questionable way, but Rufus had him pinched between his legs and held captive by a simple _sit, Tseng_.

Rufus’ command was as adamant as his fingers that ventured further down the curve between Tseng’s buttocks, as hot as his desire to see Tseng, to watch his trim but thoroughly scarred and burned body move on top of him. He caressed Tseng’s wet hair with his idle hand, waiting to hear the quiet rustle of it slapping on Tseng’s shoulders and back in the heat of the moment; and Tseng, usually a man of singular tastes, found himself vocalizing his desire to submit to the President’s command.

What little remorse he had over every second of time, every drop of precious oil and every inch of Rufus’ bony fingers that Rufus invested in his comfort faded away as he eased himself on Rufus, counting Rufus’ ribs with his fingertips, drinking in the madness in those piercing blue eyes that struggled to focus on Tseng’s as those hands ventured all over him, gripping the sharp angles of his body, pressing on old wounds and fresh bruises alike. Tseng would tell him how amazing he felt inside him, how the hand on his cock brought him closer, how this was everything he had ever wanted from the President – even if one of the things was a lie, fat and juicy like the President’s cock inside him.

He felt Rufus was about to give in, throw his head against the pillow, lose sight of Tseng worshiping him with every fibre of his being; and that he would not allow. He would stretch his last minutes into oblivion, and stretch nothing more as he lifted himself from Rufus, leaving him gasping in surprise, five minutes to his midnight as Tseng grabbed him by the hips and pulled him up. He propped Rufus in his lap and shoved himself in, grabbing him hard to keep him waiting, sinking his teeth in that part of the President’s neck he knew would be covered by collars aplenty.

Rufus Shinra had trodden his own path, worked night and day to be a President to remember even without his father’s ghost on his shoulders. He had earned his presidency, for fuck’s sake, just as he had earned _this_ ; the sweet pain of Tseng thrusting in dry, rocking him up and down in his bony saddle, forcing him to hear these very words, watching Tseng ride to his own climax and pull the President down to the abyss with him.

“Still wet. Sorry, Tseng, but you lose.”

A voice from the sole minute of stillness, Rufus still clung to him, his voice shaky but warm as Tseng laid him down on the bed with him, a mass of unpleasantly moist tentacles of hair reaching to Rufus’ side of the bed. His eyes were closed, his absurdly long eyelashes casting shadows on his flushed cheeks but not on the smirk Tseng could only wipe away with a hushing kiss. Had he known this was the way to lull Rufus to sleep he would have suffered much less through the President’s petulant pre-teen years...

A loud crackling noise came from outside, and the dream he was falling into shattered with a start. He instinctively reached for his gun, but before realizing he did not have one on him, he caught a glimpse of sparkling gold and green movement through the window blinds. The dim sky, once lit with bright colours and ornamental patterns of perfectly synchronized fireworks, beckoned Tseng, who turned to Rufus with a questioning look and a sudden desire for a breath of fresh air – through filter or not – before bedtime.

“I think I’ve seen enough fireworks for one night, Tseng.” Rufus groaned, half-lidded, his hand on Tseng’s chest to keep him in bed – as though he was going somewhere the President would not be able to follow in his state. Tseng would never dare say it out loud, but the man he was looking at was absolutely endearing in his helplessness, and for that alone, he crawled back under the covers and kissed the President goodnight.          

For minutes, or hours, he lay awake, caressing Rufus’ hair and holding his hand until his fingers went limp and his breathing slowed down. That was Tseng’s cue to get up, to tiptoe out of the bedroom and through the rest of the apartment for one last check of the locks, the windows, anything that might compromise the soundness of the President’s sleep. He picked up his gun from his coat pocket and carried it with him to the bed, on the nightstand by his side. He knew there to be guards outside everywhere – hell, he had assigned them himself – but to be able to catch a wink himself, he needed it.

“If you want me to sleep, Tseng, then please stop planning to murder me while I’m trying to do it.” Rufus had flipped himself over on his stomach and pulled the duvet down to his hips, right above the illegally appetizing curve of his behind that Tseng still could not quite believe he had mistreated like that. The lion was half asleep, and, as such, he seemed more like the cub that Tseng had raised and less like the king of tomorrow.

Smiling, Tseng lay down by the President’s side again and slid his hand under Rufus’. By some wicked necromancy, his memory revoked holding Rufus’ hand like this throughout a night of thunder and nightmare in his father’s absence, him whispering stories of the ancient gods, watching his wistful triumph unfold as young Rufus yawned at those _silly creatures that don’t even exist_ and finally fell asleep.

“Good night, Mister President,” he whispered, knowing the reassuring squeeze in his hand to address his own impending nightmares instead.

* * *

 

When he finally woke up, it was to his own cold sweat and not the alarm he swore he had set. His head felt as if someone had dropped the Midgar Upper Plate on it, and the pain was so sharp he could not see properly. He had woken up in an unfamiliar bedroom with closed blinds but a window slightly ajar for a refreshing breeze. His hand felt half paralyzed – he must have slept on it – and it took him a considerable effort to lift it to look at the watch he had somehow slept with.

It was the President’s inauguration day, and he certainly should not have slept in, if at all, to wake up in a king-sized bed. The other, empty side of the bed was just as rumpled as the one he had woken in, but already cold yet still familiarly fragrant.

There was no sign of Rufus in the bedroom or any of Tseng’s missed calls and unread messages. Tseng could not hear any noise from the kitchen or the bathroom, and his highly developed instincts told him that the man had left the apartment already long ago. Rufus’ garments from yesterday, however, were where they had fallen before bedtime – neatly on the clothes rack, as was right and proper for black tie. Tseng found his own clothes there as well and rummaged through his pockets, only to find that his car keys were gone with Rufus. His heart skipped a beat, and his fingers automatically sought for Rufus’ number on the phone. He waited, holding his breath until he heard the President’s phone vibrating somewhere within the apartment. No one rushed to pick up, and he was starting to worry.

He pulled on his trousers in haste and reached for his gun, which he had fortunately kept on the nightstand. He scanned the apartment in haste, but did not notice anything that might indicate Rufus being kidnapped; there was no blood or weapons in sight and no broken objects to mark a struggle in anywhere else than the bed. Rufus could not have gone far – he had gone to bed late and the sun had barely set, leaving him a few measly hours before he was to be picked up and escorted to his post to observe the parade.

There was nothing to worry about. He could track the location of his car, talk to the guards outside, call any of his men. He had had only one drink, he would have woken up to any commotion in the apartment, and he knew where to find Rufus in a few hours. He could think of a dozen sensible reasons, and a handful of less probable and more unnerving explanations, yet his gut opted for the unspeakable, sending his heart racing and adrenaline rushing through his entire body as he dashed for his shoes, only to be interrupted by the echo of footsteps coming from the hallway.

He waited, his back sweating against the door, his gun ready to either knock the intruder out or send a bullet in his brain. He tried to gauge the steps, but their pace was too light and too even for further analysis. He could not hear any heels – anyone with truly ill intent would not make such a rookie mistake – and soon after the turning of a key in the lock. Tseng held his breath, waited until the door came ajar, and attacked.

Rufus did not look any bit surprised as he froze in surrender, his hands above his head, the contents of a grocery bag scattered at his feet. He was unrecognisable in a dark beanie, large sunglasses and an oversized tracksuit, but the way he looked down on Tseng from behind the glasses was the final cue for Tseng to lower his weapon with shaking hands.

Tseng’s lips, however, would not bend for an apology. His heart was two beats from failing him, and the visceral fear that _something_ could have happened to Rufus rode over all sense and sensibility. A part of him still could not believe this was Rufus, in plebeian attire and action, and that he had not blown the President’s head up by accident or self-defence; that very part of him kept him from speaking, his eyes from Rufus’ in favour of the President’s shoes. They had mud in it, so he must have been stealing his morning jog somewhere Tseng did not even want to know.

“Sorry for borrowing your car. I refuelled it for you.” Rufus fished the car keys out of his pocket and tucked them all too neatly in Tseng’s trouser pocket. His hand lingered there longer than it should have, and Tseng slapped it off, earning a look that was more amused and less offended that he cared for.

“You think sorry will cover for wandering off alone, _today,_ on _these_ streets, unarmed and without your phone? Every other citizen in here has more than enough reason to want you dead!” His headache would soon split him in two, and the last thing he really wanted now was to confront Rufus, so he turned his back to Rufus to keep the last shreds of his composure. The thought of what could have happened to Rufus brought a sickening taste in his mouth, not least for how the rest of the world – or mainly his Turks – would look at him when they found out what he had been doing in Rufus’ quarters and why he had, yes, failed to fulfil his duty of protecting President Shinra.

“Too bad for them, then. If my fate is to die by the hand of a man, I promise it will be no other than you, Tseng.” Rufus was standing behind him, his fingertips skirting Tseng’s hips, and something in his dark whisper sparked blind rage in Tseng. He had had it with this fucking brat, his delusions of grandeur, his self-made license to treat him like this. He turned, and his fist outran his wit, landing promptly between Rufus’ left cheek and nose, sending the President against the wall with a slam.

“You really should be careful what you wish for, Sir.” He felt Rufus swallow hard under the vice of his hand around his throat as the barrel of his gun dug into the flesh under Rufus’ jaw. He was one push from losing it, from ending Rufus Shinra’s life by an unfortunate nervous tic of his trigger finger.

The worst of it lay in the truth of Rufus’ words; he certainly would not let anyone have what was his alone, to leave unpunished the things only he knew and only he had suffered because of Rufus. Yes, he would not fail to admire how the crimson blood complimented Rufus’ alabaster skin, and once he was done, he would strip his bony corpse of these hideous rags and lovingly wash him and dress him in his black turtleneck and his white suit, and then dispose of his body when it was no longer of any use to him.

Had Rufus been afraid it could have pushed him to the edge; yet he stayed still, piercing Tseng’s demented mind with a blank stare, heaving slow, deep breaths, until Tseng withdrew his shaking hands and gun. The bastard did not even flinch, but stayed where he was left, unfazed, one hand reaching out for the grocery bag on the floor. Rufus let go of his arm and disappeared into the kitchen before Tseng had even processed the significance of his doings.

He had given so much of himself to this man, expecting nothing but respect for his actions and advice in return. Yet he had been too blind to accept the measly gift of trust – his trust in this man, his ability to live his life without anyone holding his hand or watching him his every waking hour – and Rufus Shinra was not a man to be spurned. The keys still weighed heavily in his pocket, still hot from Rufus’ touch. He had bitten the very hand that fed him, and he would not be surprised if the very hand saw fit to pull the trigger on him and send him straight to the gutters of the Lifestream.

“I thought breakfast would be appropriate. You like your eggs hard boiled, don’t you, Tseng?” Rufus had returned from the kitchen, holding a cup of coffee, and Tseng found it profoundly disconcerting that he had ignored one of his five senses in his panic. The President looked surprisingly fresh, despite the palm prints adorning his pale neck and the fresh bruise on his cheek, and the painful knot in Tseng’s chest tightened with the realization that perhaps he had had a good morning until a certain someone ruined it.

“I have wronged you, Sir. My conduct was inexcusable.” He muttered his words, bowed his head slightly, but Rufus would ignore him and return to the kitchen to unpack his groceries. Each ingredient that Rufus took out of the farmers’ market bag looked fresh out of the tree, the cow or the hen, and Tseng could not help noticing just how Rufus had paid attention to what he preferred for breakfast whenever he had the luxury of enjoying any.

“I stand by my words, Tseng of the Turks. My life is in your hands, as long as you remember where yours belongs.” Tseng could feel the burn of Rufus’ eyes of steel as if it was him instead of the eggshell that cracked in Rufus’ palm before the rest of the egg made it to the frying pan.

“I will not forget, Sir.” He had never seen Rufus Shinra preparing his own, let alone another’s food by himself, and the primal instinct of offering a helping hand burned deep inside his bones. He had cooked for Rufus countless times, and knowing the man, he could very well have learned everything from watching alone – yet little had the President known of how it would be him to prepare Tseng his last meal before the impending death row?

“You have twelve minutes before breakfast is ready. I’ll shower later, so the bathroom is all yours.” With a mere flick of his hand, Rufus sent Tseng out of the kitchen, and Tseng obeyed, locking himself in the bathroom with a bang. He gathered his hair up and surrendered to icy cold water, chastising his body with each drop and each minute that he used to the fullest not to stand in the President’s way. Rufus’ handiwork still shone clean in his hair, and he was certainly in no position to show up in towel-dried hair and an emergency ponytail. He took a towel and rubbed himself dry with it, all the while conscious of the moving figure that had appeared on the other side of the glass walls of the shower.

Rufus stood in front of the mirror, studying his reflection. His hair was glued immaculately despite the beanie it had been stuffed under, but the numerous blood vessels that had been ruptured by Tseng’s hand worried him. He selected a small tube from his toiletry bag, squeezed a dollop on the back of his hand and dipped his little finger in it, dabbing all over the damaged area. Tseng watched, petrified, until Rufus had covered the entire bruise in makeup. He would not be able to hide the swelling to come, but the shadow his hair cast on his cheek would fool the untrained eye just enough.

Had Tseng not realized it the night before, it would dawn to him now that he would not grow old watching Rufus grooming like this. His memory, branded in his mind, of Rufus in front of the mirror was forever tainted by his own hand, and the look Rufus cast at him in the mirror before leaving the bathroom was enough to wither the little remaining life out of the Planet.

Putting on a clean shirt that Rufus had left for him in the bathroom felt like flogging on his cold skin. It was too small everywhere – on his shoulders, his waist, leaving his hips and his wrists bare – but wearing something of Rufus’ was decidedly part of his walk of shame. The rest, the more personal garments left for him were less humiliating, but painfully more Rufus than him in colour and feel, branding him everywhere with the President’s mark that would follow him like the perpetual stench of blood of his own shadow.

This was not the first time he made a fool of himself before Rufus, but certainly the worst and the last as he skulked to the kitchen, only to discover that Rufus had managed to make the table for two in what he gathered was mere seconds. A big mug of steaming hot coffee was waiting for him on the other side of the table along with a plentiful platter of hard boiled eggs and bacon. Rufus gestured him to sit, and he obeyed, trembling as he sank into his chair across Rufus.

“You will not partake in the ceremony operations. I have new orders for you. You will go with Elena and leave as soon as you’ve finished your breakfast.” Expressionless, Rufus slipped him a hastily sealed envelope across the table, then immersed himself in the daily newspaper. Tseng noted that the President skipped the majority of the pages, all of them screaming his name and his picture.

For Tseng, this must be the most profound humiliation he could ever imagine. So this was where his punishment began, being sent elsewhere with a junior Turk when his absence would be a red flag to anyone with a will to attack the President. His lifeline was now Elena, for she played no part in this, and should he be punished in a way, she would certainly not be part of it. He could always refuse, but he did have this fucking thing called pride, and for it alone, he refused to squirm before President Shinra and beg for a chance to redeem himself.

“I understand, Sir,” he sputtered, his fist balled, but Rufus was already perusing the obituaries, and Tseng knew he was dead to him until he had sat down and eaten the breakfast he had been served.

The eggs, as well as the bacon, were perfect, just as he wanted them. The coffee was close enough, everything he needed to start his engine, and yet Tseng could not stomach a mouthful. “Might I take this with me and eat on the go, Sir?” he asked, a blatant lie Rufus would catch without a doubt, but the only thing Tseng could envision in his mouth was a bootleg cigarette, the kind Reno would keep around and hide in the other Turks’ bags and vehicles _just in case, yo_.

“Have it your way, Tseng. Keep the mug.” Rufus gestured towards the bag he had carried his groceries in, still not looking at Tseng, who caught himself looking at the President’s watch instead. Soon a car would come to fetch the President to take him to observe the parade and hold his inauguration speech that Tseng knew would strike fear in the hearts of many, including his.

His heart racing, he picked up his meal and packed it, not quickly enough to stop Rufus from returning to page one for an apparent re-read of the newspaper. He was not welcome here anymore – what Rufus had said about showering _later_ was now; later was now, and the knife of _later_ sank deep in Tseng’s heart as he stood in the doorway, bleeding, waiting until Rufus would look at him one more time.

“Godspeed, Tseng,” he heard the President say, but his eyes failed him after all and he was already gone before tears would taint his last remaining memory of Rufus Shinra looking at him with his stunningly blue eyes.

* * *

 

There was no room for any kind of god within Shinra, and Tseng had gladly given up his upon entering – albeit forcedly – the company.

He drove fast, wanting to get away from seeing his lover’s name everywhere on garish red banners the President certainly had not chosen himself. He passed the first formation of soldiers gathered at the dock, ready to honour the President, a chosen god for the people of Midgar. The sun of the planet, quite ironically.

He put his phone on speakers and dialled Rude, ignoring all traffic lights and a number of other rules as he waited for the man to respond.

“New orders. I’m going with Elena to the Temple of Ancients. You and Reno keep Rufus safe until I’m back. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Boss.” Rude hung up before Tseng could make out of Reno’s obviously shocked outcries in the background. The two would know what to do – Tseng trusted these men, as wanting as his ability to trust was, but he had no other option than to leave Rufus in their weathered hands and drive through the gates of the secret operations base he was headed to.

Elena was waiting for him on the helipad, dark circles under her eyes and coffee stains on her sleeve, but she was armed to the teeth and so pulled together it made Tseng feel even lower. She pursed her lips for a question, but Tseng hushed her with his finger and a muttered promise to tell her later as he helped her into the helicopter and took the pilot’s seat.

 “Is it something between you and Rufus?” Female intuition or just classic Elena, nosy but sharp as a needle, her words did not shock Tseng at all even in mid-ascent. Perhaps she had already connected the dots before once had become another of Tseng’s unhealthy habits. Perhaps Tseng had ruined things for good, ruined them well enough to deny everything between him and the President.  

“Elena, if anything ever happens to me, I need you to take care of the President. Whatever it takes, even your life.” He heard a clear _yes, Sir_ , but from what he could tell from the mirrors, her eyes were clouded with doubt, the corners of her mouth twitching ever so slightly. She did not want to be on this mission, either, and Tseng would make damn sure at least she would get home in one piece. For himself, he cared very little at the moment.

He could swear he saw Rufus looking at the chopper on the sky, at him, his hair swaying in the wind, an icy frown upon his beaten face as he stood in wait for the parade he would feel bitterly all over his body.

Just this once, up in the sky, hearing the parade commence not that far away, Tseng prayed for all his abandoned gods in Wutai to watch over Rufus and forgive him – not for all the unspeakable things he had done and the lives he had ended, but only the very hand that could have ended the President’s life.


End file.
